Chapter 13- New beginning

The next morning, sunlight poured through Dean's half-drawn curtains, painting the cozy apartment with a warm, golden glow. The soft covers felt warm as he stirred, and the gentle hum of his surroundings gradually woke him. As the last vestiges of sleep faded, a jarring ring broke the silence; the screen's glow revealed a name that stirred both excitement and worry.

“Hello?” Dean asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He sat in his bed trying to figure out why he was being woken up so early in the morning, when he didn’t even manage to sleep in for a little bit longer or even grab a cup of coffee before engaging in a full conversation early in the morning. My brain was still trying to register who was speaking to me, and that’s when I heard the familiar voice on the other end of the phone. It was my mother, and whatever she had to talk to me about had to be important.

“Hey Dean, sorry to wake you up so early,” his mother said, her voice laced with concern. He could tell by the tone in her voice that for once he was not going to be going back to sleep, and just once he wished for a normal day, just once that didn’t end up in a conversation with his mother before his day even started. He let out a soft sigh before trying to get himself situated, and then he tried to think of what his mother wanted to discuss with him that couldn’t have waited until another few hours later.

As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the plush carpet greeted his feet like a gentle embrace, its lush fibers weaving a tapestry between his toes and caressing them with a warmth that contrasted the cool air of the morning.“What’s wrong, Mom?”He inquired, sensing the urgency in her tone. As he swung his legs over the side of his bed and padded across the cool floor, he made his way to the bathroom. The morning light filtered softly through the window, casting gentle shadows around the room. Standing at the edge of the bathroom counter, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, debating whether to wash his face first or brush his teeth. The air is filled with the faint scent of mint from the toothpaste sitting invitingly on the counter, reminding him of the routine that awaits him. He paused, waiting for his mother to respond to his questions, a sense of anticipation brewing within him.

“If you're free today, can you come over so we can talk?” she said. Hearing her shift in the background, he assumed she was trying to prepare for his arrival if he decided to agree with her request, but even so, he was going to hear his mother's request, even though he hoped to take some time for himself this day. One talk with his mother couldn’t hurt now, can it? He let out a sigh and hoped he didn’t regret this in the future.

“Sure, I’ll be right over.” He said to his mother, and he could hear a sigh of relief coming from her end of the phone. Probably to tell his father that they agree to have a conversation together since our last encounter, which ended with a different result than the last time. With a soft smile plastered on his face, Dean decided to continue with his morning routine as he got his day started and prepared to go to his parents' house once again to have an important conversation with his mother.

After Dean completed his conversation with his mother, he meandered over to his closet, filled with a mix of memories and possibilities. The soft light filtering through the window illuminated the carefully hung shirts and the neatly folded sweaters, each piece a reminder of moments past. As he sifted through his wardrobe, he felt a sense of anticipation, excited to reunite with his mother and embrace the warmth of their time together. Hoping to rebuild the bond that they once had before his mother betrayed her judgment of not liking Jasmine, and assume that she was just after his family's money, and realize her mistake of trying to control everything in their family life, and hopefully this conversation will make his mother understand her misunderstanding and be able to move part this bad error in her judgement and be able to build a better future as a family again.

He leaves his apartment and heads over to his parents' place. As he navigated the winding road toward his parents’ house, a mix of curiosity and apprehension stirred within him. What could his mother possibly want to discuss? The question lingered in his mind, swirling with thoughts as the familiar neighborhood unfolded before him.

As he approached their home, a quaint single-story building framed by neatly trimmed hedges, he caught sight of his father in the front yard, engrossed in his weekend routine of mowing the lawn. The familiar sound of the lawnmower hummed steadily, blending with the clear blue sky above and the sweet scent of freshly cut grass. His father, wearing a worn straw hat and faded work shirt, moved methodically, as if lost in thought, a slight sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

A part of Dean felt comforted by the sight before him, but another part remained anxious about the conversation that awaited him inside. As he pulled into the driveway, he turned off the car and sat for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts before heading into his parents' house. He got out, locked the car, and walked inside. The doorknob felt cold in his hand as he turned it and entered, and he began searching for his mother.He crosses the threshold of his parents’ house and looks around the first floor to search for his mother. Dean first looks in the kitchen, assumes she would be in there, maybe making herself a cup of tea. But when he walks into the kitchen, he finds it empty and no trace of his mother in sight. Dean then walked to the living room as his footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, and when he stepped into the space, his mother wasn’t there either. Dean stood in the entryway for a bit, looking around for any signs of his mother, but to no avail. Dean found nothing, looking in the kitchen, and found it spotless and not a speck of dust anywhere, knowing his mother liked to keep the kitchen clean, whether we had company or not. Then Dean walked over to the living and there was no sign of his mother in there as well.

“Mom, where are you?” I asked. As my voice reverberated, moving through the house to reach my mother, who was somewhere inside, I realized that, quite noticeably, none of the maids emerged to tell me where my mother was. I was curious to know whether my mother was the one who gave them some time away from their usual duties, or if perhaps she assigned them a task that needed to be completed around the time of our meeting, which could also shed light on why Dad was occupied with mowing the lawn outside, thus explaining his absence from our conversation.

Waiting to hear a response back from her, as I start to walk up the stairs to see if I can find where she has disappeared to, and then I hear a familiar voice.

“I’m in my office, Deam,” my mother called out to me.

Once I reach the top of the second floor, I walk down the long hallway. I keep walking until I reach the end, and my mom's office comes into view. I open the door slightly and see my mom sketching a new wedding dress in her sketchpad. She looks up when she hears the door open and stops what she is doing.

My mother gently set her pencil down on the polished surface of her desk, the soft sound hardly breaking the tranquility of the room. She carefully closed her weathered sketchbook, its well-thumbed pages filled with intricate pencil drawings and fleeting glimpses of inspiration. With a thoughtful sigh, she opened the small drawer on the right side of her desk, revealing a clutter of art supplies and notes. After a moment of hesitation, she slid the sketchbook inside, tucking it away as if preserving a secret until the next moment of creativity struck. She stood up from her desk and walked over to me with a soft smile plastered on her face.

She stopped right in front of me, searching for the right words to say in that moment, as if she were trying to calculate her approach. She wanted to begin the conversation on the right foot, avoiding her old habits and ensuring that the entire discussion wasn’t solely focused on her.

“Hello Dean, how are you?” she asked me.

“I’m doing well, Mom. What did you want to talk to me about?”

She gestures elegantly for me to take a seat in the plush chair facing her desk, a subtle invitation that fills the air with a sense of anticipation. As we both settle into our seats, the soft creak of the leather punctuates the moment, and I can feel the weight of the conversation looming between us. There was this awkward silence that soon filled the room, and I was looking at my mother, waiting for her to say something to break this silence. It was so quiet that we could hear the clock ticking on the wall. As the room settles into a quiet that feels heavier than the furniture itself, my mother clears her throat. It’s the kind of sound she makes when she’s rehearsed something a dozen times, but still isn’t sure how it will land.

“First off,” she begins, folding her hands in her lap, “I want to apologize, Dean… for my attitude toward Jasmine. And for how I handled the entire stalker situation.”

I blink, unsure if I heard her correctly. “You do?” I say, not accusing—just stunned.

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice softer than I’ve heard it in years. “I do. And I’ve realized that I made a terrible mistake.” She pauses, eyes drifting to the floor as if the truth is easier to confess to the hardwood than to me. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. I should’ve…” Her voice wavers, and she forces herself to meet my eyes. “I should have given Jasmine a chance before assuming she was only interested in our family’s money.”

There’s a defeated tremor in her tone—one I’ve never associated with the woman who built a wedding boutique empire from nothing, who never apologizes unless she means it. For a moment, she looks smaller, stripped of the confidence she wears like perfume.

“I let my fears get ahead of me,” she continues. “I thought I was protecting you. But instead, I pushed you away. And I hurt someone you care about deeply. Someone who clearly cares about you just as much.”

I sit there listening, trying to read the sincerity in her expression. Part of me wants to guard myself, to keep the walls up after everything she put Jasmine through. But another part—the part that remembers she’s still my mother—can see the remorse settling into her shoulders.

She exhales shakily. “I’m sorry, Dean, truly… I hope it’s not too late for me to make things right with both of you.”

Her voice trails off, leaving the apology hanging between us like a fragile offering. And as I watch her, I can’t help but wonder if this is the first real step toward healing the damage she caused.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the cool air fill my lungs as I let her words settle in my mind. The weight of her thoughts hangs in the air, swirling around us like a gentle breeze, and I take a moment to absorb their meaning fully. Each syllable resonates, stirring a mix of emotions within me as I carefully consider the implications of what she’s just shared. For a moment, I just watch her. My mother, who has always been so sure of herself, is now sitting in front of me with her shoulders lowered and her pride set aside. It’s a curious sight, observing her in this moment.

Exposed. Fragile.

Her vulnerability lingers in the air, a striking contrast to the emotional armor she typically dons. There’s a profound rawness to her humanity that captivates me, unveiling layers of depth and complexity I’ve never encountered before.

“Mom,” I finally say, my voice steady yet softened by compassion, “I truly appreciate you sharing that. More than you can imagine.”

Her eyes flick up from the ground, a blend of hope and caution dancing within their depths, catching the light like shards of glass. Flecks of uncertainty glimmer as she scans the surrounding faces, her heart racing with the possibility of a response that could change everything.

“I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt,” I continue. “The way you treated Jasmine… the assumptions you made… it put a strain on us. On me. And it made her feel like she wasn’t welcome in my life.” I pause, letting the truth settle in the air between us. “But she stayed anyway. She stayed because she loves me. And because she believed that eventually, you’d see her for who she really is.” I say to her as I watch her let my words sink in. I want to ensure that my mother truly understands the gravity of the situation. If she makes another mistake or crosses the line again, it will mean the end of our relationship for good. I am prepared to sever ties permanently, and there will be no more second chances. This is not a decision I take lightly, but I need her to recognize the seriousness of her actions and the impact they have on our bond. My mother swallows hard, a wave of guilt washing over her face, tightening the corners of her mouth and shadowing her eyes with unspoken regret.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” I say softly, my voice steady yet filled with warmth. “I just need you to try. Take the time to truly understand her—the little quirks that make her unique and the dreams she holds close. Treat her with the same respect and kindness you’d hope someone would show me, because that’s what she deserves.”She nods, eyes glistening.

“I want to. I really do,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, filled with a mix of longing and apprehension.

“Then talk to her,” I urged, my gaze steady on her. “Not as the woman you thought she was—the one shaped by your assumptions and past experiences—but as the real woman she has become, with all her complexities and truths.”

A long silence enveloped us, thick with unspoken fears and hesitations. Finally, she exhaled, releasing a soft, shaky breath that seemed to carry the weight of her uncertainty with it.

“I will,” she promised, her voice steadier now, a flicker of determination igniting in her eyes. “I promise.”